<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Just Another Movie Night by Baileys</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29085417">Just Another Movie Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baileys/pseuds/Baileys'>Baileys</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Best Friends, Cas/Dean if you ship it, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Fluff and Angst, Friends if you don't, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:22:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,861</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29085417</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baileys/pseuds/Baileys</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Picks up at the end of the episode with Cas and Dean returning to the bunker together, Sam following soon after.  The guy's ruminate on their respective feelings after Cas gets jabbed with that nasty ass spear, while Dean concludes his 'no chick flick moments' rule has been thrown completely out the window.  Oh, and there's a really old TV.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester, Castiel &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My first Supernatural fanfic!  Having watched the odd episode here and there over the years, I used the first Lockdown back in March 2020 to get caught up.  I now find myself totally obsessed.  Cas and Dean have joined my list of all time favourite duos.  Hope I've done them justice, but fair warning, if you've never read anything by me before, I love fluff.  Hugs are my happy place.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Let’s go home.”</p><p>Sam and Mary leave the barn first, followed quickly by Cas, who’s surprisingly agile for a guy not two minutes into another one of his nine lives.  Dean hangs back, waits until they’re all out the door before collecting the lance.  Picking up both parts, not willing to leave anything for Crowley or another big bad to retrieve and make good again, he examines the now dormant pieces of wood.   Rolling them around in his hand, it's hard to believe a crappy stick nearly stole his best friend from him.  The kicker is Ramiel isn’t even the biggest threat they’ve faced.  The darkness, Archangels, Lucifer himself couldn’t kill Cas permanently, and yet one long lost weapon in the hands of some douche of hell nearly did what the others couldn’t. </p><p>Dean doesn’t like the thought that pops in his head next.  That the reason Cas has defeated the odds so many times is because of Chuck.  Now Chuck’s gone, Cas and all his bad luck and penchant for running headfirst into danger could get himself killed for real.  They were lucky this time.  Lucky Crowley isn’t the same demon who took the throne all those years ago.  A giggle suddenly builds up in his throat, bursting forth in a hysterical squeal of disbelief.  He, Dean Winchester, is grateful for the king of hell.  Never, not even while carrying the Mark, did he foresee this day coming.</p><p>Stepping into the cool night air, taking a deep calming breath and looking around, his heart immediately stutters.  Cas is nowhere in sight. </p><p>“Cas?” He calls out, voice barely reaching above the sound of the wind swirling in over the lake. “Castiel!” He calls again, urgency, irritation and fear piercing the air.</p><p>“I’m here, Dean.”</p><p>Dean spins around, sees Cas step out of the shadows behind him. “What the hell are you doing?  Get in the damn car.” </p><p>Grumpily he points to Baby, parked messily on the side of the road, angled with her tires part buried in mud because he barely stopped in time to avoid ploughing through the barn wall.  Cas stares at him, brow drawn in and pinched like wants to argue.  Dean’s grip on the broken lance tightens.  Why Cas would argue about going home is beyond him, but he’s in no mood to work it out.  Throwing the damn lance into the trunk with a clatter he slams the lid shut and makes his way to the driver’s door without another word.  There’s a churning in his gut he’s trying hard to ignore and that is taking all his concentration right now.    </p><p>“We ready?”  Sam appears, jogging up to them.</p><p>Dean looks up to answer, but sees Cas looking lost and slightly disgruntled, stood swaying by the rear passenger door, like he’s already forgotten what he’s supposed to be doing.  “Cas!” He barks.</p><p>Cas jumps.  Head swiveling around, eyes wide and scanning for danger.</p><p>Sam reaches out, gently pats his shoulder.  “You guys okay?”  His gaze moves between them, searchingly.</p><p>Not needing the tension in the air pointed out to him, Dean hardens his expression and does what is natural for him in situations like this.  Deflects.  “Where’d the hell you go?”</p><p>It comes out accusing and Sam gives him a reproachful look, one that softens the second he follows his gaze which has instinctively slid back to Cas.</p><p>“Helping Mom.” </p><p>Dean opens his mouth, but snaps it shut again as Mary pulls up beside them, in a light blue truck with what he can only assume is its former owner laying covered by tarp in the back.  Of course.  They couldn’t just leave Wally’s body on the Prince of Hell’s porch, now could they?  The churning increases tenfold upon seeing his mom and it sours Dean’s angry mood, replacing it with something much more dangerous.  Inside the barn, when Cas had done his own share of deflecting and asked what Ramiel meant about stealing from him, he, Cas and Sam all held similar looks of confusion.  Dean didn’t like who that left, but with Wally dead, if there is more to this than they know, only one person among them can provide those answers, and she’s not saying anything.  And shit.  Cas is still standing by the car looking spacey, like he’ll keel over any minute. </p><p>Catching Sam’s eye over his angel’s head, Dean nudges his chin at Baby.  Mary obviously picks up on the gesture. </p><p>“You boys go.  I’ve got this.”  She tells them through the lowered driver’s window.</p><p>“No Mom,” Sam is quick argue.  “We should help.”</p><p>“I know Wally’s family; it’ll be better if it’s just me.” </p><p>Mary speaks to all of them, but her gaze avoids his and there’s something in that.  Something Dean just can’t deal with right now.</p><p>“Fine.” He snaps.  “We’re headed home.”</p><p>“Dean?” </p><p>“Sam.” Dean bites, flicking a covert glance back at Cas.</p><p>Sam makes less effort keeping his expressions and words neutral as he argues his point about why they should help their Mom burn Wally’s body, but since Cas’s dead eyed stare into nothingness doesn’t change, it barely matters.  In fact, it helps shut Sam up quicker. </p><p>“Okay, sure.” Sam agrees, pinched features belaying those words.  “Look, you go on ahead.  I’ll drive Cas’s truck back.  Make sure Mom makes it to Wally’s place okay.”</p><p>Another tense look is exchanged, and Dean picks up on something he missed before.  He thought the bitchfaces he was getting were because he was being his usual asshole self, anger being his go to response when someone he cares about - someone <em>he loves</em> - has been put through the wringer, but he’s wrong.  Sam is suspicious too.  Suspicious of Mom.</p><p>“Sounds like a plan.”  Dean agrees steadily.</p><p>Sam doesn’t fail to show his surprise at his quick change of tune but is smart enough not to comment.  They make their unspoken agreement, his words just now not even close to conveying what their silence is saying.  Dean can feel Mary’s eye on them, like she wants to ask but doesn’t because if anything she’s cautious when it matters.  Snapping out of their private moment Dean marches around the Impala and latches onto Cas, startling the poor guy once again.  Hand gripping his forearm, trying to ignore the heat he feels emanating through the many layers of clothing, Dean yanks him back, creating enough space to open the passenger door before shoving him inside.  Their Angel doesn’t protest at the rough treatment, not even a squeak.  Knowing it’s probably the memory of pain and not pain itself keeping Cas subdued doesn’t make Dean feel any better.  For memory there’s no relief.  Not until the mind is ready to accept it, which judging by Cas’s weary stance and sullen silence, won’t be happening tonight.</p><p>Leaning over him, reaching around to click the rarely used seatbelt in place, Dean grips his shoulder.  “You still with me buddy?”</p><p>Cas is still for a second too long, like an old-fashioned satellite delay.  Eventually he nods, slowly and delicately, like he’s having to think hard about each small movement.  It’s not much, but it gives Dean hope, which is enough.  With the knot of worry he’s been holding onto unfurling, he feels it’s safe enough to leave his friends side and travels around Baby, sliding into the driver’s seat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam hangs back by the truck and listens to his Mom’s hushed words, spoken on the doorstep of the modest single storey house.  When she disappears inside, he busies himself collecting kindling from the surrounding vegetation, in preparation for a hunter’s funeral. </p><p>“Thank you,” Mary appears just as he finishes tying the last rope around Wally’s ankles, securing the tarp.  “You better get going if you’re going to make it back before morning.”</p><p>“I can stay.”  He offers, eyeing the body.</p><p>With a glance back over her shoulder toward the house, Mary declines with a smile.  Turning on that motherly charm Sam can’t help but give in to she declares, once again, it will be best if she faces Wally’s family alone.  So, they say their goodbyes and Sam hits the road, hoping Cas’s truck makes it the nearly 4-hour drive back to Lebanon.</p><p>He arrives back at the bunker around six in the morning, the sun just starting to crescent over the horizon.  It’s been a long night given everything that’s gone down in the twenty-four hours since they met in the diner, but the last thing he wants to do now is sleep.  Walking down the steps into the library it doesn’t hit Sam until he drops his bag on the table.  The bunker is silent.</p><p>“Dean?  Cas?”  He walks around the map table into the library and finding no one heads down the corridor towards the kitchen.  “Guys?”</p><p>Coming up empty Sam doesn’t know where to look next.  The impala is parked in the garage, so they definitely made it back.  After a minute it occurs that maybe Dean had felt like him now and knowing his brother, instead of dealing with insomnia in a healthy way, he could have decided walking into town and hitting a bar was the answer.   That’s unlikely to have been what was best for Cas, but then he doubts their Angel would have said no to anything Dean asked in the state he was in.  Hoping he’s wrong and miraculously tiredness won out, Sam knocks on Dean’s bedroom door.  Opening it when he gets no response, his heart sinks a little at the empty bed. </p><p>Walking two doors down he stops outside the bedroom Dean had given Cas, despite him not needing to sleep and preferring to spend most of his time in the library whenever he stays with them.  Something that Dean still does not understand and sees fit to bitch about at every opportunity.  Sam gets it.  Cas has never had a room of his own, he’s never even had a home of his own.  He lives a nomadic life with the voices of his Angel family in his head and can hear Dean or him whenever they pray to him – consciously or not.  But even if he didn’t know all that, back when it was just him and Cas in the bunker, when Dean left on his mission of self-destruction and took on the Mark of Cain, Cas confided in him that he doesn’t like solitude.  One night, when Sam suggested he try and sleep after the healing drained him to the point he could barely keep his eyes open, Cas had compared the bedroom, with its four walls, no windows and solid door, to heaven’s jail.  A place where an Angel could literally spend eternity.  To make his point abundantly clear, Cas said he’d rather douse himself in holy oil and walk-through fire than be forced into one of those cells. </p><p>Sam may not be able to relate fully to the jail comparison – though being in the cage would come pretty damn close he thinks, <em>if </em>he could remember any of it - he’s also never had a home.  Even in college his room was just a place he stayed, where he kept his books.  He relates to the bunker in the same way.  Sleep is a necessity for him, so his room is just the place he rests, nothing more.  Sometimes he envy’s Cas’s ability to function without sleep.  It would be nice to have magic on tap to keep him alert all the time and not have to waste valuable hours reliving his most heinous mistakes night after night. </p><p>“Cas?” </p><p>When his call gets no response, he opens the door a crack, and sure enough his room too is empty.  So, wherever the pair where, they were likely together.  That was both good and bad Sam concludes.  Bad because if Dean has dragged Cas to a bar to watch him get drunk, then it isn’t going to end well.  Good, because despite how much of a dick Dean can be, he’s less of a dick whenever Cas is around.  Deciding he can’t wait to find out just how big of a mess he’s going to have to clean up, Sam pulls out his cell phone, prepared to be called Samantha and yelled at for acting like a neurotic soccer mom. </p><p>With Dean’s reaction in mind, he dials Cas first.  He’s the one who’s going to need help more he thinks.  His brother can be an insensitive prick, especially when he’s had a few.  It takes a second for the call to connect, but as soon as he hears the ringing through the handset it’s echo chimes from further down the corridor.  Curious, following the noise it gets louder and louder the closer Sam gets to one of the yet to be sorted storage rooms.  Prepared for anything, carefully pushing down the handle, he slowly opens the door.</p><p>….</p><p>“Watch your step.”  Dean instructs softly, holding Cas’s arm tight as they walk into the bunker.</p><p>“Dean, I’m fine.”  Castiel tries to pull away, to walk unaided, but wanting to take control and having the physical strength to do it are not the same thing.</p><p>Dean doesn’t hold Cas’s reluctance to be looked after against him and instead allows him to pull away, just long enough for him to stumble and realise he isn’t getting anywhere under his own steam. </p><p>Latching on the second his knees give out, threatening very an un-angel like tumble down the stairs, Dean secures one arm around Cas’s waist, the other holding his forearm “humour me,” he smiles softly, enjoying Castiel's crestfallen look a little too much.</p><p>“I don’t know any jokes that would be appropriate right now.” </p><p>The quick response has Dean flummoxed and they end up standing on the top step staring at one another, each waiting for the other to make the next move.</p><p>“Well, put it this way,” he clears his throat, nudging Cas forward and watching him slowly stick out his foot, landing each step with an audible huff, “I’d rather you not break your neck falling down the stairs.”    </p><p>Cas looks up and over at him, still not speaking but his face is asking all the same.  Dean refuses to spell it out. Instead gives him a firm little squeeze where his fingers curl around his hip over the trencoat, conveying as much comfort as he can muster in that simple gesture, and quickly moves them along. </p><p>When they finally reach the bottom and Cas tries to direct them towards the library where they normally gather, Dean grips the arm he’s still holding tighter and swiftly pulls him back.  “No.  Only place you’re going is bed.”</p><p>Again, all he gets in response is a yet another silent look, only this time he’s pissed. </p><p>The glower is adorable, and it makes Dean smile.  Cas is a fighter, and to see him looking so hopeless and lost does weird things to him, bad things.  It reminds of the too many times Cas has come back to them hurt and felt the need to beg for help, like he still doesn’t know it’ll be freely given, no matter how mad Dean might be at him for whatever stupid thing he’s done to get hurt this time. </p><p>“Dean,” Cas growls as they enter the corridor, “I told you, I’ll be fine.”</p><p>Ignoring him, brushing off his protests with a weary chuckle at the familiar and comforting stubbornness, Dean naturally leads to them to Cas’s room.   There’s no sign anything is wrong, or wronger than it already is, not until they reach the threshold and Dean opens the door -  </p><p>“Cas?”  Dean question’s, stumbling.</p><p>Using his last remaining strength Cas has dug in his heels and is refusing to budge, no matter how hard Dean tries to pull him forward.  It’s only upon looking at his face that he sees the glare has been replaced by a look of wretched fear.  It’s not often Cas looks afraid.  Mainly he will look unimpressed, whether in the face of a monster or idiot humans or even other Angels that seem to think they are a match for him.  Given how much crap they’ve been through over the years, it would take a lot to truly scare any of them.  So fear, real panic, for Cas it’s personal. </p><p>“Can we please go back to the library?”  He asks quietly, eyes fixed to the floor.</p><p>For an Angel like Cas to ask for something so simple, as if he’s asking for a miracle, it breaks Dean’s heart. </p><p>“You need to rest,” Dean tells him softly, not knowing how else to convince him.</p><p>Whether Angel or Human, or like Cas who appears to always be dancing somewhere in the in-between, being healed through magic doesn’t mean jack for the mental trauma of being so close to death and feeling it happening.  Hell, just from looking at his drawn features and feeling the heat emanating from under his clothes Dean knows they aren’t fully out of the woods yet.</p><p>“I can rest in the library.”</p><p>Cas words are spoken to the floor again, lacking inflection and it pisses Dean off that he has no clue how to help him.</p><p>“Okay,” he snaps, “what’s going on?”</p><p>“You’re trying to make me go to bed when I don’t need sleep.”  Cas snaps back, not cowed in the least, which tells Dean <em>this</em>, whatever this is, is some serious shit.</p><p>“I’m not making you-” Dean cuts himself off, takes a deep breath and starts again, using his indoor voice.  “Just trust me, it’ll be fine” he tries again to guide him into the room and again Cas refuses to budge.  “Okay, what the hell!?”</p><p>Cas looks away, embarrassed.  Mumbles something.  Dean has to ask him to repeat it.</p><p>“I don’t want to be alone.”  He shouts, more angry and louder than he intended if the quick dip of his head and hunched shoulders afterwards is anything to go by.</p><p>Well shit.  <em>What the hell can he say to that?</em></p><p>In a pause where Dean tries not to look at his friend with sentiment that could potentially be seen as pity, he pats the arm still held in his and guiding them in an about-turn, instructs, “I have an idea.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam opens the storage room door, and the cell phone ringing gets instantly louder.  Blinking to focus his eyes to the dimness of the room, it takes only seconds of scouring for the source before his gaze lands on his brother.   Unsure what to make of what he’s looking at, Sam hangs up quickly, plunging the dark storage room into near silence.  Not that it matters. The shrill noise clearly didn’t wake either of them.  With his feet up, heels balancing on a couple of stacked boxes, Cas slumped against his side, Dean didn’t even flinch. </p><p>Stepping inside he takes in the small couch their sharing.  Sam doesn’t recall ever seeing it before.  Looking around the cluttered space, in front of the stack of boxes (full of Men of Letters artifacts or records no doubt) supporting his brother’s feet is another stack.  This one has an old boxy TV sat atop of it, the type with ears to attract a signal no longer broadcasting.  Attached to that is an equally as old VCR and playing on the black and white screen, none other than scooby-doo.  Dean’s comfort viewing. </p><p>The volume is set so low it’s not worth having on at all, so Sam strolls over to turn it off. </p><p>“Don’t you dare.” Dean’s voice breaks the calm air just as Sam’s finger brushes the off switch.  “This is the best part.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah” Dean agrees sleepily, eyes not even open.</p><p>“Fine.”  Standing useless in the middle of the room blocking the screen, Sam clears his throat.  “Didn’t you hear me calling?”</p><p>“You were calling Cas,” Dean blinks blearily and gives him a smug smile, shuffling up slightly, as much as he can without waking the Angel tucked against him. “His phone is in his jacket.” </p><p>Sam turns, following Dean’s pointer finger and sure enough the blood covered garment is in a puddle on the floor behind the door.</p><p>“Figured you’d find us eventually.”  He grins softly again.</p><p>A silent conversation takes place next.  Dean doesn’t ask about their mom, but Sam can see the question in his eyes.  It’s hopeful and he knows that’s why Dean isn’t verbalising it.  To put him out of his misery Sam shakes his head, shrugging off the nervous feeling in his gut that’s warning him everything is not as it seems where Mary is concerned.  He doesn’t want to talk about it tonight.  Maybe tomorrow.  When everything isn’t so open and raw.   Talking about open and raw-</p><p>“Everything alright?”  Sam turns serious, gaze flicking to Cas who hasn’t moved an inched since he found them.</p><p>Dean shuffles once again, this time stretching his neck, sneaking a look at Cas himself.</p><p>“He didn’t have enough mojo to clean himself up and I wasn’t gonna look at him all bloody for the rest of the night.”  He defends, clearly in response to Cas wearing what can only be Dean’s clothes since their Angel friend doesn’t have any spares of his own. </p><p>“Yeah, I get that.”  Sam huffs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, trust Dean to avoid the question completely.  “I meant is everything, you know, <em>alright?</em>”</p><p>There’s a pregnant pause where he wonders if he’ll ever get an answer. </p><p>“He nearly died Sammy.” Dean whispers, gaze fixed on the still very much fast asleep Castiel.</p><p>It’s a confession containing more than just the facts, telling Sam he shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t see Cas without Dean over the next few days.  The hunt for Lucifer’s baby momma on hiatus for sure.</p><p>“I know.”  He whispers back.</p><p>And he does.  He feels the same. </p><p>The idea of a life without Cas is like life without his right arm.  Really, it’s as if Cas has always been with them, been a part of them.  Sam can’t remember when he went from someone he was in awe of, to ally, then finally to best friend and brother, not exactly. But he does remember the moment he realised how deeply Cas <em>feels</em>. When it was just him and Cas in the bunker, after Dean left on his mission of self-destruction, Cas shared so openly.  His fears, his regrets, his shame, all to help Sam deal with the Gadreal situation, it revealed so much about the Angel he’d never considered before.</p><p>Sam had felt shame in that moment.  He and Dean were always so self-absorbed in their own messes they sometimes forgot about the important people around them.  All the crap that Cas has been through, some for them, some because of them and some when he needed them like no angel has needed a human before ever and they weren’t there for him.  When Cas called him on his own stubbornness over the Grace extraction, he taught him a valuable lesson.  They - him and Dean - they aren’t martyrs.  Sacrificing yourself for the greater good isn’t noble, it’s cowardice.  Giving up is the easy way out.  Living is what’s hard.  Living with what you’ve done, with the mistakes you’ve made is even harder.  </p><p>In that moment of failure Sam had experienced clarity for the first time; his faith that there was always another way was restored and he realised how important it was not to lose himself in his own self-pity.  Thinking of what Cas had shared, the sadness in this person he called Brother and fearing that for all his knowledge and power Castiel, Angel of the Lord, still had no idea what being part of a family, what being part of <em>their</em> family truly meant, Sam had turned to him and hugged him. </p><p>He smiles at the memory, of having to prompt him to hug back, taking his stiff stance not as rejection, but simply not having a clue what to do next.  Looking at Cas now, sleeping with his head resting on his brother’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world and remembering what he said earlier in the barn, Sam feels accomplished.  This is a Cas who knows what a hug feels like from someone who cares about him. This is a Cas who knows what family and love is and is not afraid to show it or receive it.  It’s ironic that Cas has learned all that from two of the most emotionally repressed humans he could have the misfortune of befriending.  But he’s happy that at least he and Dean have done something right by him, even if they could never be brave enough to lead by example themselves.</p><p>Dean starts to shift, pushing Cas away preparing to stand. </p><p>Breaking out of his thoughts Sam jumps to action.  “You want a beer?  If you promise not to narrate the whole thing, I’ll put one of those crappy westerns on you like so much.”</p><p>Pressure off apparently, Dean slips back down on the couch, Cas slipping down with him, head dropping to rest against his chest under his chin.  Dean doesn’t even seem to mind, just smiles that cockeyed grin of his as he adjusts Cas’s sleep limp limbs so they’re not bent at odd angles. </p><p>“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”  He says as Sam backs out the door.  “Do I still get that beer?”  He hollers, voice travelling down the corridor towards the kitchen.</p><p>Sam rolls his eyes, keeping his surprise at getting away with the ‘crappy’ comment to himself.  “Yes.”  he shouts back painfully, knowing full well he’s going to hear an endless loop of how brilliant each and every scene is no matter what, and there is nothing he would damn well do to change it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean lets loose a smile when his brother returns and he spy’s the freshly opened beer in his hand.  Directing him to the box of old VHS tapes, he allows Sam to take his pick.</p><p>“Where’d this thing come from?” He asks, inserting a cassette and pressing play on the VCR.</p><p>“Found it.” </p><p>Sam perches on the sofa’s arm as the opening music starts playing.  “Where?”</p><p>“In a motel,” gazed fixed on the screen, Dean wafts his beer free hand encompassing the room.  “I’m going to get a big TV in here someday, and a couple of those reclining chairs.  It’ll be perfect.”  He catches Sam’s smile and sees it drop almost instantly.  “What?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“<em>Sam</em>.”  Dean turns his head to stare up at him.</p><p>Sam gives him a sad smile, eyes dropping to look directly at Cas.  “He nearly died.” </p><p>It was whispered so softly it would be possible to claim he didn’t say the words at all.</p><p>…</p><p>“Where are we going?”  Castiel asks as he’s dragged down yet another of the bunker’s long corridors.</p><p>After refusing to be put to bed as Dean had so arrogantly intended he’d hoped to be returned to the library, but it appears they are headed in the opposite direction.</p><p>“You’re going to wash that crap off you, I’ve got something I need to do.”  Dean answers him in his usual clipped tone, an indicator that he’ll need to work through his newly soured mood - no doubt brought about by Castiel’s refusal - in his own time.</p><p>Staying quiet to let him do just that, Cas is taken by surprised when he feels a palm in the centre of his back and is pushed into the shower room.  Dean then immediately disappears, leaving him alone. </p><p>Alone.  In a small square room void of anything but practicality. </p><p>Castiel’s breath hitches in his throat.  For a second he thinks he’s choking again, can taste the rot that only hours ago had been oozing out of him.  It wasn’t his vessel as he supposes the others thought.  It was him.  That black tar was his true form, dying not like with an angel blade in a spark, but slowly decaying, cut off from the heavenly host permanently by whatever magic was in the spear. </p><p>“Hey,” Dean reappears and claps him on his back, startling him enough to unclog the obstruction that isn’t there.   “Come on, time to hustle” he admonishes as if Castiel should know what is expected of him by now, “look, I got you clean clothes.” He circles around to stand in front of him, sniffs the items in his hand, “mostly clean,” and drops the crumpled pile on the exposed water pipes curling out from the wall and down into the floor.</p><p>Castiel tips his head slowly and stares at them.  He recognises the shirt, it’s one he’s seen Dean wear often, not as often as he wears his trench coat, but often. </p><p>His eyes crinkle with that knowledge. “Thank you.”</p><p>The words are quiet and inadequate even to his own ears, but Dean seems not to mind since without pause he tugs the trench coat off his shoulders and pulls until it slips off his arms and over his hands. </p><p>“Think you can handle the rest?”</p><p>“Yes.” Castiel nods sluggishly.</p><p>It feels like although Dean is talking in real time, his own responses are markedly slower, like it’s taking a lot longer than it should for him to process his instructions and a lot more effort to form the words needed.</p><p>“I remember showering from when I was human.”  He fills in, staring at the stall behind them and the controls.  “Like riding a bike,” he adds, talking at the cracked beige tiles lining the inside of the stall.  “I think that’s the phrase?” he frowns, “although I don’t actually know how to do that.”</p><p>“Something we’ll have to work on.”</p><p>Eventually he turns to see Dean smiling at him, not laughing, and not a smile that reaches his eyes, but one that is softer than his regular grin.  One he recalls seeing aimed at him on several occasions in their time together but, like now, is never sure what it means.</p><p>“You gonna be okay on your own for a few minutes?”  </p><p>Castiel frowns, trying to work out Dean’s meaning.  The smile has been replaced by a clenched jaw and the green eyes belay worry.  He realises now, since his return to the bathroom Dean has sounded out of breath, like he’d been running, but why would Dean be running if he’s not being chased?</p><p>“What-” his voice cracks, chokes off with the emotion of his sudden realisation.  He should be ashamed of the weakness, but Castiel can’t bring himself to be anything but grateful for his friend.   “I’ll be fine.”</p><p>Getting the words out feel like a tremendous achievement.  It’s taking all his strength to stay upright and string a sentence together.  Dean must be right.  He does need to rest. </p><p>“Clean up, I’ll be right back.  I promise.”  Dean pats his arm and leaves once again.</p><p>…</p><p>Dean fully intended to return as promised, however what he didn’t expect is Cas being inexplicably quick at showering despite his sorry ass state.  Maybe because he’s an Angel the sensation of showering isn’t as satisfying as it is to humans?  Maybe his fear of being alone was enough to break him out of the drowsy funk he’s been in since waking him in the bunker garage?  Whatever the reason, less than five minutes after leaving Cas to wash the blood and black stains from his skin Dean finds the idiot wandering the corridor, barefooted at that.  Never had an Angel of the Lord looked less threatening.  If not for the blood and mud-stained trench coat he has for some reason seen fit to slip back on, he’d go so far as to say cute.</p><p>“Cas” Dean sighs as he approaches, feeling every one of his thirty-eight years.</p><p>Despite the fact they are less than a few metres apart, Cas still looks confused as to where Dean’s voice is coming from.  Watching him frantically look all around for the source, his initial relief at seeing him up and walking by himself is shattered and replaced with sorrow when Dean steps closer and sees the fear still very much present in his vacant eyes.</p><p>“What’s with the coat man?”</p><p>There’re obvious damp patches on the shirt he’s lent him, where he didn’t dry off properly.  Dean wants to insist he change again but settles for tugging the sleeves of the trench coat instead. </p><p>Cas dutifully holds his arms out in front of him, looking down at himself in confusion.  “I always wear this coat.”</p><p>Dean resists the urge to smack him upside the head.  “Come here.”  He huffs.</p><p>Cas dutifully steps closer, so they are practically nose to nose and Dean swiftly spins him around, slipping the dirty tan trench coat off his shoulders just like he had in the bathroom.  He folds it over his arms, showing Cas he’s not going to do anything untoward with what has obviously become his comfort blanket.   </p><p>“You can clean it when you’re fully recharged, okay?” He appeases, pushing him in the direction he’d just come from.</p><p>Entering the room at the very end of the corridor Dean points at the couch sitting central to the room.  The boxes that were stored there stacked and pushed against the walls.  Cas looks at him curiously.  Dean just shrugs.  It had been his project in between cases.  Something to throw himself into whenever sleep evaded him and negative thoughts tried to take over his mind in lieu of sleep.  While Cas showered he’d quickly cleaned away his rubbish and prepped the VCR ready to play one of his favourite childhood shows, the old cassettes part of a handful of personal possessions he’d managed to hold onto over the years. </p><p>Cas examines the couch like he’s unsure how to use it, so Dean pushes him down, throwing the trench coat onto the floor and flopping right next to him, leaving little space for him to escape.  He realises this is probably cruel.  He’s spent years teaching Cas about personal space and over time they’ve come to an easy understanding.  Meaning Cas still gets too close, but Dean has mellowed enough not to mind anymore.  Right now, the tables have turned and its Dean encroaching on Cas’s personal space, which by the looks of him is causing the poor guy some serious confusion.</p><p>Finding his reaction more amusing than worrying, Dean takes it one step further and slips an arm around his back, pulling Cas flush to his side. </p><p>Leaning forward, reaching to the floor he produces a beer and the remote.  “Sleep.” He commands simply, popping the cap with his teeth, eyes fixed on the screen.</p><p>Cas looks over at him, expression hard to define.  Like a lot of his expressions – which are either overly exaggerated or completely unreadable and never in-between– it’s difficult to know what he’s genuinely thinking.  He doesn’t argue however and after a further minute where Dean focuses on watching the Scooby Gang exposition-ing their case of the week, when his gaze drifts back to his friend he discovers Cas’s eyes are closed, lids smooth not scrunched and he’s making soft little snuffling sounds.  Feeling proud of this minor success with that look of peace, Dean suddenly realises how tired <em>he</em> is and when his eyes slip close before Velma reveals it was the real estate agent all along, Dean doesn’t bother opening them again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As soon as Dean leaves Castiel starts unbuttoning his shirt.  It’s stiff and sticky in places, the smell when he pulls the torn section away from the still healing wound is overpowering.  Glancing over at the shower stall, he knows humans spend an inordinate amount of time standing under the stream of warm water not just to clean, but to relax, and Castiel intends to give it a try.  To give Dean as much time as he needs to come back if nothing else.  The last thing he wants is to be too needy.  </p><p>He knows he isn’t… <em>right</em>.  He’s not so far gone that he can’t recognise how disconnected he is from reality.  But knowing it and being able to do anything about it are not the same.  Dean is being gentle with him and that alone tells him things are worse than he thought.  He hates being weak.  If this had happened before the apocalypse he’d probably be a lot worse off, but fortunately, if he can call it that, his experiences with the leviathans, purgatory, Naomi and finally the fall, have all prepared him well for being less than he once was. Castiel’s not sure he can even still call himself Angel.</p><p>Undoing his pants, letting them drop to the floor, he’s assaulted with a memory, one that finds him standing in a starkly lit room, in front of machinery humans use to wash their clothes.  It was cold then too. </p><p>Quickly pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes and rubbing hard, he uses force to push the memory and all those associated with it away.  “I’m fine.”  He repeats to himself, wanting to believe he’d not lied to Dean just now.</p><p>Leaving his dirty, ruined suit in a pile in the middle of the room, Castiel steps into the shower and tries to focus on cleaning himself.  There’s blood and mud and blackness marking his skin.  The wound where the lance entered is closed, no longer leaking fluid.  One good thing then.  It’s still red and puffy mind, but that will heal in time.  What’s worrying him most right now is the silence.  He’s not tuned into angel radio for a long time, not unless it’s for a case – or an end of the world emergency – but the waves of communications were always there, a low hum in the background, letting him know he wasn’t alone, that the life he’d led before choosing the Winchester’s over Heaven hadn’t disappeared without a trace.  That hum has become weaker over time, especially since the fall, where their numbers were greatly reduced, and when messages do come through they’re loud, like an echo in an empty room.  But they were never gone.  Not like this.  Right now, he can’t even detect the hum.</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>He jumps, feels his whole-body tense up.  Blinking he looks around only to discover he’s no longer in the shower.  He’s not even still in the bathroom.  Looking down at himself he sees he’s clothed and sighs in relief.  He may not know everything about human interaction, his experience in certain areas being extremely limited even now, but he knows nakedness in front of others is reserved for very intimate occasions.  He tries to orientate himself, but his excellent sense of direction is as absent as angel radio right now.</p><p>“What’s with the coat man?”</p><p>“I always wear this coat.”  He responds automatically.</p><p>Hands reach for him and Castiel allows it.  Dean pulls his sleeves over his hands and spins him around.  It’s all very physical.  Making it clear he has no say in the matter and this decision, like so many others tonight, are out of his control.  He feels a chill when the layer is gone.  The dampness of his skin becomes obvious, as does the cool hard floor beneath his bare feet.  It scares him.  What if this is it?  What if he never gets better than this?</p><p>The next new sensation he’s aware of is Dean’s hand in his back, pushing him on.  Just like with the shower Dean is escorting him through the bunker, never breaking contact until they reach a room at the end of the corridor.  Dean’s ‘other’ room as he’d referred to it once, when he’d asked Castiel to help him move a sagging old couch inside.  </p><p>Opening the door and entering, he sees the couch and notices there’s been a few other additions.  A TV for one. It’s playing an animated show, one he’s seen Dean watching on occasion in many a motel room.  Looking over at his friend he gets no answer to his unasked question and a pang of regret hits him.  He misses being able to get a sense of Dean’s thoughts. </p><p>Dean encourages him closer and Castiel steps towards the couch, examining it like he would a cursed object.  It probably wouldn’t hurt to sit down and watch TV if that is what Dean wants.  They have watched movies together before. Usually in the library on a laptop, and with popcorn, which is plain enough the flavour is palatable.  On those occasions Dean often likes to teach him things, about the characters and their actions and how they intersect with the ‘real world.’  Castiel would argue that the term real world is subjective but has learnt that movies allow Dean to escape the pain and sadness which so often surrounds them, and he’d never want to take that away.  He’s flattered to be part of the process.  Right now, Castiel thinks he’d probably be a very poor student and worries that might lead Dean to think he doesn’t want to watch movies with him anymore. </p><p>He’s pushed onto the couch before he can finish his thought, lands sideways and shuffles around just in time for Dean to take the seat next to him.  Before he can consider exactly what’s happening Dean’s arm is around his back and Castiel finds himself hugged close to Dean’s side.  He looks up at him but gets nothing more than another command to follow.</p><p>“Sleep.”</p><p>Dean’s attention is then directed at the small square screen.  End of discussion.</p><p>This he certainly did not expect.  Dean’s always been kind to him – well maybe not always, but when he’s not been angry with him and when Cas has needed him to be, like now, he is kind.   Admittedly the sporadic displays of physical affection are something he did find strange at first, especially after all the lessons and reminders of personal space that he still forgets from time to time, but the longer time goes on the more Castiel has come to appreciate how precious these gestures are.  Dean does not hug just anyone.  When Dean loves, he does so with all his heart.  Fully and wholly. </p><p>Reasoning he’s in no shape to argue, Castiel attempts to do as he’s being told and closes his eyes.  Feeling the warmth of the body at his side and in the arm wrapped around him, the soft sound of the television fills the gap left by angel radio.  With his true form still knitting it’s self together on the inside, using all his available grace, without even realising what’s happening Castiel finds his own thoughts quickly fading and suddenly there is nothing but peace inside him once again.</p><p>…</p><p>
  <em>He nearly died.  </em>
</p><p>While the opening credits roll and Gregory Peck rides his horse across the sand dunes, Sam’s echo of his own words from moments ago loop through Dean’s mind. </p><p>Generally, when they’re facing death they’re facing it together, fighting the good fight.  There’s no time to think or grieve when you’re up against the biggest bad of the season and you know you aren’t getting out alive.  <em>But this?</em>  This that happened today, it was not like that at all.  It was supposed to be a simple demon hunt.  In and out, nothing too threatening or life changing.  What it turned out to be, was horrific.   Like watching someone die of a terminal illness, only sped up to fit what should be months or years into mere hours.  It was still too long to watch someone he cares about, someone he loves, suffer.  </p><p>And now he knows, Cas loves him too. </p><p>Cas <em>Loves</em> him.</p><p>Being loved should be a good thing.  So why does he feel so heavy with it suddenly?  Loving someone, being loved, there’s a responsibility he supposes.  A contract. Crowley would certainly <em>love</em> that.  Love is a burden, means everyday you’re at risk of losing something important and once it’s gone love is acknowledging no matter what you do, your life will never be the same again because of it. </p><p>It’s for that very reason Dean did not intend to get close to anyone, not ever.  He lived his life making fleeting connections, tenuous enough neither side would care if they saw each other again yet leaving clean so if he should pass through the same town or bump into them further down the road, they could pick up exactly where they’d left off.   Castiel and his ability to track Dean down wherever he might be, it was the first-time that side of things was not within his control and the longer he spent in Cas’s company the more something akin to affection grew.   Dean finally realised he loved the nerdy angel, who tended to support even the craziest of Dean’s crazy plans, when the stupid idiot tried to undo his mistake of opening purgatory and got himself killed in the process.  He shouldn’t have cared.  Cas had lied to them, fought against them and broke Sam’s wall.  Yet in the end, with Cas lying still and bloody on the floor, Dean had prayed.  He prayed to Cas, to God even to let him be ok, because Dean knew in that moment if Cas died, his life just wouldn’t be the same.</p><p>Now, over the years, Dean has accepted that despite his best intentions he has gotten close, not just to Cas but others as well.  Like maybe letting Cas break through that emotional barrier opened the flood gates for everyone else.  He rationalises it’s okay for him to love his family, so long as they all stay safe he’ll never have to experience the kind of pain he experienced in those six months thinking Cas was dead.</p><p>But to be loved back?   To hear the words and know it to be true?  Love becomes a responsibility.  Because if he doesn’t survive, he’s hurting them.  And that’s the last thing Dean wants to do.  This is why Dean never says it, even though he feels it with all his heart.  He can think it, he can feel, he can show it, but so long as he doesn’t <em>say it</em>, it’s unwritten and therefore the next time he risks his life he’s not risking letting anyone down.</p><p>Blinking away the moisture that’s inexplicably gathered in the corner of his eyes Dean covers his reaction by taking a swig of beer and giving Sam a play by play of what’s about to go down in Cayenne.  Sam’s sipping his beer at the other end of the couch, now slouched with his legs sticking out past the stack of crates acting as a makeshift footstool, eyes glued to the screen.  As attentive as Dean’s ever known him during one of their movie nights. </p><p>On screen Jimmy Ringo get challenged to pistols at noon and at a break in the rhythm of Castiel’s snuffling little snores Dean drags the fingers of his one free hand through Cas’s freshly washed hair to reassure himself he’s still there, still with him.  And so long as he stays that way, so long as they all stay that way, Dean knows things are going to be alright.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yay you made it out alive!  Congrats :)<br/>The movie they're watching is The Gunfighter (1950).  Never seen it.  I rely on Google for my Westerns knowledge.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>